


show them baby, this is your time to flaunt it

by Bluebluebaby



Category: Dead To Me (TV)
Genre: F/F, jen overcoming her repression never gets old lbr, judy gets a lot of orgasms which is nice after all she's been through, uhhhhhh voyeurism, with a hint of phone sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:07:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28263615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluebluebaby/pseuds/Bluebluebaby
Summary: Jen likes to watch; Judy likes to be watched.There are no mistakes, only happy accidents.(voyeur fic!)
Relationships: Judy Hale/Jen Harding
Comments: 33
Kudos: 74





	show them baby, this is your time to flaunt it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bgaydocrimes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bgaydocrimes/gifts).



> happy birthday @bgaydocrimes !!! everything i know about jen/judy smut i learned from you <3 
> 
> s/o to @everydaybicon and @knebworth for betaing, and following the wwkd model that brings out the best in all of us. 
> 
> title taken from "what i see" (heyooooooo) by rose cousins. (lovely song, tbh.)

  
  


It’s an accident, the first time Jen walks in on Judy. 

She’s home unexpectedly early after a showing falls through; Judy’s car is in the driveway which is strange but not necessarily cause for concern. Rifling through the mail, and seeing a few envelopes addressed to Judy, Jen decides to walk them over to the guest house. It’s the friendly thing to do, after all. 

Judy doesn’t answer when Jen taps lightly on the door, and hearing a low thrum of music, Jen assumes she’s like, painting or sculpting or writing in her diary or whatever the fuck and just walks right on in.

Judy is not journaling. 

Or chiseling marble. 

But one could make a compelling argument for finger-painting, given how she drags her fingers through her wetness and swirls them around, leaving glistening trails of wetness along the insides of her (surprisingly strong, _okay_ , Jude) thighs. 

Jen’s body reacts before she can truly process what it is she’s seeing (Judy fucking herself, _quite_ passionately, turns out): her heart starts pounding a mile a minute, her skin feels like it’s on fire, her stomach is somewhere in the Indian Ocean. 

It’s a sensory overload— Jen has seen Judy many times before, but never like this, wanton and desperate; wet and ready. Beneath the music (who masturbates to _Joni Mitchell,_ seriously?) Jen hears Judy’s heavy breathing, the slick movement of skin against skin. She smells it too, in the air, how turned-on Judy is. 

The voice of reason in Jen’s mind tells her to turn on her heel silently and forget this transgression ever happened, but she can’t. Fucking. Move. 

Jen has never been fucking _mesmerized_ by anyone in her life (except Ann Reinking in the ‘96 revival of _Chicago_ , but that’s like witnessing god herself), but Judy is… There’s something magnetic about her desire for herself— Jen’s gotten herself off before, she’s fucking human, but it’s never felt like anything more than a perfunctory means to an orgasm (followed by a good night’s sleep, if she’s extra lucky). Judy clearly intends to take her time, massaging her breasts and tweaking her nipples, letting the neck of her wrap dress fall open, pushing the cups of her bra roughly aside. Her eyes are closed, wrenched shut in pleasure, her imagination filling in the blank spaces where visual input would typically be. 

(Jen wonders what she's thinking about, what made her want to touch herself in the first place. Then she wonders what it would feel like for _her_ hands to replace Judy’s. Which maybe makes this all more fucked up, watching her like this, but the door has been opened, and there's no closing it now.) 

The hem of Judy’s dress is hitched up to her waist, her underwear hanging off her ankle, like she couldn’t wait one more second to go to fuckin' town. Her legs are spread wide, and as she begins to fuck herself in earnest, her hips buck up off the bed, seeking more friction. 

As “Coyote” reaches its climax, Judy trails behind, increasing her pace, her breaths transforming into sighs and moans. 

The light shifts, then, sunlight moving through the leaves, and the change prompts Judy to open her eyes. 

They catch on Jen, standing in the doorway, eyes wide and mouth open. Jen can _feel_ it when their gaze locks, like a bolt of lightning straight from her eyes to Judy’s body. The air between them crackles with tension and possibility. 

Then, Judy’s entire body freezes, and her moan turns into a strangled cry. Jen can _see_ how she pulses around her own fingers. Judy goes limp, and as she slowly withdraws her fingers from herself, Jen finally regains the ability to control her body, and leaves the room before Judy can try to fucking _process_ what just happened. Her legs are shaky as she walks, (faster than she thinks, but slower than usual) and the impact of what she just witnessed hits her. 

Judy, touching herself. 

Judy, slick and hot and _wanting_. 

Judy, coming when she realizes Jen’s watching her. 

Beneath the shame and disbelief at what she’s done, there’s also a _power_ . She’s never had that much hold over someone, that simply _watching_ them could make them lose control. She catalogues every recent interaction with Judy, wondering if she felt her gaze, wondering if her own stares had a different meaning to Judy than she’d intended at the time. 

(It’s an illicit thrill, the idea that Judy had been wanting _this_ all along. That her frowns and glares might have packed an extra punch. Now that Jen knows it, she certainly won’t look at Judy the same, whether she wants to or not.) 

1 pm is perhaps too early to do tequila shots, but 46 is way too late to be discovering a voyeurism kink, (not to mention the latent queer desire), so Jen downs a double. 

She’s midway through aggressively washing the breakfast dishes when Judy waltzes in the kitchen, relaxed and glowing. 

She picks up the mail which Jen has very conspicuously left on the island counter, leafing through the mix of bills and magazines with practiced casualness. 

“You got rid of the security cameras, didn’t you?” 

“Uh, yeah, after that thing we don’t talk about,” Jen gulps. 

“Hmmmm,” Judy flips the page of a catalogue that appears to sell tie-dyed garments with cute animals on them, “I had the strangest feeling, earlier, like I was being watched.” 

She lifts her eyes from the page, but where Jen expects to find accusation there’s instead a warmth (verging on _heat_ ). 

“Probably just Karen,” Jen bullshits, “Real Housewives is on hiatus so she needs something to fill her days.” 

Judy’s laugh explodes out of her, deep and throaty, and Jen can’t help but think back to previous unbidden vocalizations. She feels herself _throb,_ like she’s in a fucking romance novel or something, fuckin’ _quivering with desire_. 

_Fuck._

“Don’t you usually work Tuesdays?”

“Oh, yeah, Angela changed my schedule so I’m working 3-11 now, we’ve added a ‘Drink n’ Draw’ class for the party set. I’ll probably be here this time most Tuesdays.” 

Judy’s voice trails off, the end of her sentence more of a question, the unspoken ‘ _if you want me to be_ ’ hanging in the air between them, confirming that Jen’s arrival at the guest house and Judy’s orgasm was a cause-and-effect, not merely correlation. 

Jen’s body responds before her mouth can— her cheeks burn and her heart leaps into her throat. Every cell in her body says to call Judy’s bluff, watch her squirm, but her brain is still three steps behind, half-wondering if she in fact never woke up this morning and is having a wild dream fueled by literal years of sexual frustration. 

She gives a willfully obtuse response instead, like a fucking coward, (“I guess Tuesday’s our new pizza night, then,”) before making the excuse that her workout cannot and _will not_ wait. 

_

A grueling hillclimb on the Peloton and an ice cold shower do little to make Jen feel like a normal fucking person again, but they do give her an excuse to avoid Judy until it’s time for Jen to pick up the boys from school and Judy to go to work. Dinner and homework and bedtime routines keep her occupied until it’s 9 pm and she has no more excuses to avoid the frankly earth shattering events of the day. 

Jen lies on her back in bed, taking deep breaths in an effort to slow herself down (a Pastor Wayne technique; gross). She doesn’t want to tease herself, or caress her skin, like Judy— so often her body feels more like an enemy than a part of herself—but she does want some semblance of relief after eight hours with an incessant feeling of arousal. 

Honestly, Jen _really_ wants to grab her vibrator, pound one out, pass the fuck out and never think about any of this again, but she’s compelled to _feel_ the effect of seeing Judy has had on her, all _fucking_ day. 

She’s fucking _soaked_ , which is as distant a memory for Jen as having real tits and a happy marriage, and if nothing else this new discovery about herself could really cut down on the household lube budget. 

Jen tries, she really does, to just focus on the physical sensations of her fingers on her clit, to come from the sheer exhiliration of delayed gratification, but when she closes her eyes, all she sees is Judy, desperate and on edge, nipples hard and aching, fucking her swollen cunt with strong, slender fingers. 

And then _she’s_ the one crying out, coming too soon, surprised by the strength of her own response. 

(Mercifully, she falls asleep before she can have a full-on spiral about what it all means.)

_ 

Jen gives Judy a wider berth than usual for the next few days, but other than that, things aren’t _too_ fucking weird. They still functionally co-parent the kids, Judy cooks dinner, and she and Jen drink wine and watch trash tv at the end of the week. 

They’re two glasses deep when Judy broaches the subject, because of course she fucking does. 

“Listen… Jen… I know there are some pretty big things between us that we just don’t mention, and that’s okay, honestly! But I just wanted to say that what happened the other day… didn’t bother me. Um, like, _at all_. And we don’t ever have to talk about it, but I guess… you know where to find me?” 

Jen downs her next glass in one gulp, before risking a glance at Judy who looks as warm as welcoming as usual, but also _very_ turned on. Pink tinges her cheeks, her tongue licks dry lips. Her body practically vibrates with energy. 

Jen lets herself _look_ , if only for a moment, feeling a rush at the effect her scrutiny has on Judy, who squirms in her seat before continuing her monologue. 

“Women are so much more complex than men, you know? The way we experience desire is so layered. And not always tied to identity. Whatever gets you going… it’s not necessarily who you _are_ , you know? I just think— why limit your possibilities?” 

Jen thinks whatever limits she had were thrown out the fuckin’ window on Tuesday around lunch time, but she’s not about to fucking _talk_ about it. So she focuses her stare on Judy's pout, just long enough to make them both even more tense, before looking away and lighting a cigarette. 

She mumbles “Thanks, Jude,” around the filter, before aggressively cranking up the volume on the tv and trying not to cross her legs too obviously. 

_ 

Judy is a big believer in the Bob Ross school of philosophy: There are no mistakes, only happy accidents. 

(Ted’s accident is maybe less objectively happy, but ultimately still a blessing from the universe, in a roundabout way.) 

Sure, going all out on solo afternoon delight in the middle of the week was a risky move, but never in her wildest dreams could she have conceived of such an incredible reward. 

It’s not that Judy’s indiscriminate with her heart— almost every person has _some_ quality that makes them attractive, she's just particularly good at seeing that side of almost everyone. 

Jen happens to have many, many attractive qualities, most prominent among them her... intensity. 

Judy’s felt the brunt of her rage, her hurt, even her love, but Jen’s _want?_ She could come again just thinking about it. Every time she closes her eyes she sees that look on Jen’s face— pupils blown wide, skin flushed, mouth agape. There had been surprise there, sure, but also desire. And _possession._

She hasn’t gotten her finger on the why of it all, but Judy fucking knows when someone wants her. Jen had looked at her like Judy’s sole existence on this planet was sex. She feels herself swell and pulse at the memory, her body preparing for a phantom spectator.

Maybe it’s a control thing, the watching. Or some manifestation of Jen’s repression (Judy doesn’t mean that as an insult or anything, she knows she’s lucky that sex has always been something accessible and liberating for her. That's just not true of everyone’s experience, and there are myriad reasons for that). 

Judy doesn’t know what it is, exactly, that made Jen stay, made her want to watch Judy in the first place, but she knows that _she_ likes to be watched. 

Jen would tell her it’s pathological, the people pleasing, attention seeking, self-objectification of it all. 

But when it comes to getting off, sometimes you just have to go with the fucking flow, and forget about the books on codependency and self-actualization and take advantage of the fact that your unapproachably hot best friend has decided she likes to look at you like you’re a filthy little slut who was put on this earth to fuck yourself for her enjoyment. 

Happy. Accidents. 

_

Judy gives Jen a few options the next week: door slightly ajar, curtains open, phone left in the living room as an excuse to run by the guest house, if she needs one. She briefly entertains the idea of getting a few toys out, but errs on the side of caution (after all, ideally she’s playing the long game here— there will be time for all sorts of accessories yet). Jen likes predictability; she’ll arrive at the same time she did last week, or she won’t at all. When it’s 12:45 and Jen is nowhere to be found, Judy starts to work herself up, lying on the bed and starting with merely thinking about Jen seeing her, before beginning to feel her own skin.

She wills herself to go slow, to save the fireworks for their intended audience. 

Jen doesn’t attempt to tread softly today— where her arrival last week was practically silent, now she opens the door with force, and stomps into the center of the room, arms crossed. 

Judy stills her hands but doesn’t attempt to cover up, meeting Jen’s piercing stare with a defiant glint in her own eyes. 

“You _want_ me to watch you?” 

“Yes.” 

(Some answers in this life are, in fact, simple.) 

Jen’s nostrils flare and her toe taps impatiently against the floor. 

“Why?” 

Judy supposes the question could be psychoanalytic, but the smirk on Jen’s face suggests she’s jumped into this full-force. The piercing stares between Jen’s verbal deflections had clearly not been an accident. Now though? Jen is walking the walk and talking the talk and if Judy thought being silently surveyed was a kick, being _interrogated_ is the fucking thrill of a lifetime. 

(Jen Harding is not a half-asser. It’s one of the things about her that makes Judy want to put on the show of the goddamn century, dignity be damned.) 

The question is not why she wants to be watched, it’s why she wants _Jen_ to be the one watching her. 

Judy has plenty of answers. 

“Fuck, Jen, do you know how long I’ve wanted this?” Judy punctuates the remark by palming her right breast, circling her nipple with her thumb until it rises to a peak.

“I was going to guess a week,” Jen deadpans, but there’s an undercurrent of lust coloring her speech. 

“Longer,” Judy whines, slipping her other hand into the waistband of her underwear, biting back a moan when she feels how wet she already is. 

“Was it on purpose then, last week?” 

(Judy could ask the same about that condescending fucking tone in Jen’s voice.) 

“Purely serendipity. Although, I probably wouldn’t have been so impatient for it if you hadn’t been wearing that fucking pencil skirt.” 

Jen’s eyes flash, and Judy feels the heat of it all over her body. It’s better than any touch she's ever known. 

“No wonder you came so quickly, hmm, Jude?” 

Judy’s about to repeat the performance, her fingertips already making rapid circles around her straining clit, but Jen interrupts her. 

“Judy, if you want me to see you… shouldn’t I see _all_ of you?” 

(Oh, god, Judy loves a demanding woman. She briefly considers ignoring the request, just to see what Jen would do, but she’s too fucking eager to please to disobey Jen. Although her hands are currently shaking so hard it’s difficult to do a proper job following instructions.) 

Judy removes her fingers from her underwear, blushing when Jen raises an eyebrow at the copious wetness on her hand, and rises to a stand, removing each article of clothing carefully. With each piece of skin revealed, Judy looks back to Jen, noting her reaction: bottom lip caught between her teeth when she takes her bra off, nipples hardening under Jen’s gaze alone; fingernails digging into the palm of her hand when Judy steps out of her underwear, her eyes tracing the curve of Judy’s hips, practically fucking her with her gaze when Judy spreads her legs a bit wider.

Once fully nude, Judy resumes her repose, propping herself up against a pile of pillows so Jen can see every inch of her, from head to toe. The fact that Jen is fully clothed just makes her feel more exposed. 

“Go ahead then, baby, put on a show for me.” 

Judy goes big: sucking her fingers clean before plunging them into herself, alternating riding her hand with rubbing her clit, kneading her breasts with her free hand and making no attempt whatsoever to quiet her moans. It clearly fucking works, because Jen is stunned into silence. 

Her attention is rapt, like Judy is the only person in the world. No one has ever looked at her this way, like she’s the only thing that exists, like the only thing that matters right now is Jen seeing Judy’s inevitable orgasm. It’s kind of poetic, the idea of bearing witness to one another in this way, being so intimately _seen_ by another person. It’s also very, _very_ hot. 

It’s enough now, the knowledge that Jen’s watching her, even as she closes her own eyes, to send her hurtling over the edge. As she guides herself through the aftershocks, Jen regains her voice, though it’s on the far side of broken.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re good at that.” 

“Teamwork makes the dream work, “ Judy giggles, euphoric.

“No, no, absolutely not, I’m outta here,” Jen grimaces, unable to fully eliminate the adoration from her face.

“But you’ll be back,” Judy waggles her eyebrows, too sated and warm to act like it’s not her best friend, actually, that she just let watch her fuck herself. 

“You’re lucky you’re like, fucked up levels of hot.” 

“Mutual, I’m sure.” 

“Judy, I gotta go before the boner is killed forever.” 

“You gotta go take care of it? I mean, I’m happy to help, if you need a spare hand.” 

(Judy can’t stop the joke, but the idea of Jen getting herself off after watching Judy? It’s not the same as Jen letting Judy touch her, but it’s aclose second. _Very_ close. May require some further mental examination later, before bed. For science.)

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning at breakfast,” Judy sighs, basking in the afterglow and dreading the workday ahead. 

“Fuck. Yeah, yeah, I guess you fuckin’ will.” 

_

It’s like that, for the next month— Jen comes home early once a week, Judy fucks herself for her enjoyment, they resume the afternoon routine and don’t talk about it. 

Jen had kind of thought that after a few times, the whole thing would lose its shine and organically fizzle out, back to the quiet equilibrium of friends who _don’t_ want to fuck ( _does_ she want to fuck Judy? It’s too much to think about, with this tenuous boundary between them), but instead, she finds herself pushing for more: checking Judy out obviously on the days they don’t have the house entirely to themselves; letting her tone of voice slip into the particular brand of teasing she likes to use when Judy’s desperate to come when they’re having a platonic conversation. 

Judy tiptoes over the line too, borrowing Jen’s shower and leaving the door open so Jen can see her body through the glass, bending over to pick up a fork she’s dropped in the kitchen and revealing that she’s got nothing on underneath her skirt. 

Every day is a fucking minefield of sexual tension. 

Jen decides to up the ante. 

On wine night, she wordlessly slides her favorite rabbit vibrator across the coffee table. It’s not particularly cold outside, but Judy’s nipples are visibly hard through the thin fabric of her vintage tee (historically accurate, to forgo the bra for a 70’s look. Joni would be fuckin' proud).

Judy looks at her questioningly (but hopefully) so Jen explains. 

“One of my favorites. Thought you might enjoy the change of pace.” 

“I’m usually a DIY type of gal, but yeah….” Judy trails off putting the pieces together. “This is… yours? As in?” 

Oh god, maybe Jen has fucking read this all wrong Jesus fucking Christ you try and do something sexy outside of your comfort zone for a friend… 

“I mean I fuckin’ washed it Jude, but you know, forget I offered—” 

Judy snatches the vibrator possessively.

“No, no no no, _Jen_ . Thank you. I will absolutely _cherish_ this gift.” 

Jen somehow manages not to shatter her wine glass. 

Small victories are everything. 

_

Judy texts her, late that night, once the boys are in bed. She’s too wired to sleep, so she reads it immediately. 

_Fuck, Jen, i don’t know if it’s the vibrator or thinking about you using it on yourself, but you were right, i very much enjoyed that change of pace ._

Then, 30 seconds later, when Jen is mid-visualization of Judy, spreadeagled and keening: 

_Who are we kidding- it was thinking about you. The moment it was inside me i was coming, imagining how you fuck yourself._

When Jen doesn’t reply (what the fuck do you say to something like _that_?), Judy backtracks. 

_You know what, if that’s like, not what “this” is, totally fine. We can keep the whole objectification thing on my end alone._

_Sorry if i overstepped._

Jen has to think on it, to ascertain if she is, in fact, uncomfortable with Judy sexualizing her. 

It would be hypocritical to be, but Judy doesn’t seem to mind. But Jen gave her the toy for a reason; might as well be very clear on that point. 

**Jude. I gave you that vibrator because I wanted you to think about where it had been, okay?**

_Jen, are you TRYING to make me come again?_

**Well, can you?**

Her phone immediately buzzes with an incoming FaceTime call from Judy. 

Bless her literal fucking heart. 

Jen hits accept, but doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. 

Judy is clearly already close, her pupils dilated and her breath heavy. Jen hears the faint buzz of the vibrator, but the screen only shows Judy’s face. 

She’s beautiful, like this. 

(She’s beautiful always.) 

She’s never touched herself, while watching Judy (afterwards, frequently), but Jen’s free hand is traveling down her torso before she can think about what she’s doing. 

“ _Jen_ ,” Judy whines, needy and a little bratty and fuck, Jen wants to torture her, just a little bit, to have something she can control in the mess that is her fucking life. 

“I’m fucking myself Jude, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” 

She holds her fingers, soaked already, up to the camera, and Judy visibly shudders. 

Jen can’t tell if it’s a moan or a sob that emits from Judy’s mouth, but she feels it in her own cunt, reverberating with an intensity that makes it difficult not to come already. 

Judy’s too far gone now to talk, but that’s okay. 

“Show me baby, show me how you came earlier thinking about that. Is the real thing better?” 

Judy comes with a cry of “yes, yes, _fuck,_ yes,” and Jen follows in rapid succession, her mind so overwhelmed it doesn’t actually matter how she’s touching herself, any friction is enough to send her careening over the fucking edge. 

“Fuck,” she hears from the phone that’s landed somewhere in the vicinity of her left shoulder. 

“Sweet dreams, Judy. Jesus fucking Christ.” 

_

Jen lets the cover of night give her permission to keep pushing Judy, to stretch the confines of whatever the fuck it is they’re doing. 

She asks questions, both for the guaranteed eventual phone sex, and to know specifically what it is that Judy’s getting out of this. If she'd be just as willing if anyone were playing this game with her or if she truly wants ( _needs_ , maybe) it to be Jen. 

(She hopes that she’ll eventually figure out that for herself. Where the line between compulsion and attraction blurs; whether the love that she can't deny is beneath the surface is in fact the wellspring for both.) 

**So… you like to be watched… what else do you like?**

_I like a lot of things, Jen, I’ve got a very open heart._

**What *would* you like? From me?**

_Dream board?_

_I want you to fuck me from behind in the kitchen while the neighbors are all outside._

_I want to straddle you on the outdoor couch and ride your fingers until I’m coming all over your lap_

_I want to kneel between your legs and get you off at your desk while you talk to Lorna_

Jen had expected the first two (though they’re not at all unwelcome) but the third throws her off. 

She’s never thought about Judy fucking _her_ . But the idea of chasing her own pleasure as Judy’s mouth works tirelessly, _fuck_ , it’s appealing. 

**Tell me more about that last one, Jude.**

_God, I want to taste you. I want to be covered in you, to fuck you with my tongue until my jaw is sore. I want you to smell yourself on me for the rest of the day._

Jen had let herself think this thing with Judy was just about the circumstances; Judy likes to be watched, Jen likes to watch; how fortunate that their paths had crossed. But regardless of fucking labels or whether or not she owns a pair of fucking Birkenstocks, Jen wants _Judy_ . And Judy wants _her_. It's not like the signs weren't there, but the _certainty_ of it hits her like a wooden bird to the back of the head. 

Jen can fairly confidently state that she’s never been so fucking turned on in her life, and she’s old enough to not look a fucking gift horse in the mouth. 

She makes herself come (on an audio-only call with Judy; she’s got fucking bags under her eyes tonight, okay?) and then, she makes a plan. 

_ 

Judy is ready to go as usual on Tuesday, halfway to an orgasm before Jen even enters the guest house.

That? Is unacceptable. 

  
  


“You’re not going to touch yourself today, Jude.” 

“Oh?” 

There’s a playful sparkle in Judy’s eyes, but she removes her hands from her body, as requested. 

“No,” Jen shrugs off her blazer, draping it over a chair and rolling up her sleeves. “I’m going to touch you.” 

“ _Oh_.” 

Jen nods, looking into Judy’s eyes for confirmation. The way she pushes her breasts forward and opens her legs is answer plenty. 

It’s hard to restrain herself enough to tease Judy, but Jen figures she’s been incredibly patient already, and the payoff will be more than worth it. 

Judy’s already naked, her skin flushed with faint traces of sweat on her collarbone. 

Jen licks it off before she can second-guess her instincts; Judy gasps and thrusts her hips into empty air. Judy tastes of salt and lavender and her own quintessence. Jen can smell her skin, notices the way it’s always lingered around the house since Judy moved in, but now, she can breathe it in, surround herself with nothing but _Judy, Judy, Judy_. The invisible thread holding them back from one other, keeping this… thing… as an intellectual exercise, not a fucking affair, snaps. Jen had never imagined living in a world where she knew the taste of Judy’s skin. But after this... she cannot conceive of ever going back to an existence _without_ that understanding. 

There's not time for a fucking existential crisis right now– Judy is whimpering and Jen can feel the vibrations as she scrapes her teeth along Judy’s throat, before nibbling her earlobe and letting her voice drop an octave. 

“Jesus christ, you’re worked up.” 

“I told you, you’re _very_ hot, Jen, honestly this isn’t _fair_.” 

Jen cuts her off by wrapping her lips around a nipple, sucking hard, feeling it respond as she soothes the skin with her tongue. She rakes her nails across the plane of Judy’s stomach. Her skin is soft, radiating a heat that almost burns Jen’s hand. Any moment not spent doing this before was a waste of her fucking life. The only solution is to make up for lost time. 

Jen trails her fingertips lower, skimming the tops of Judy’s thighs, exaggerating her movements to touch everywhere but where she wants her most. 

But Jen’s not _cruel_ , not really. When Judy moans “Please, Jen,” she only asks for clarification once (“ _Please fuck me, dear god_ ”), before obliging, thrusting two fingers into Judy and using the thumb of her free hand to circle her clit. Judy feels like artisanal high thread count bedsheets- familiar as a concept to Jen’s experience, but luxurious and soft and decadent. (Similarly, Jen is in no hurry to extricate herself from Judy.) Her fingertips memorize Judy, the way she bears down and gasps when Jen crooks her fingers towards herself just so, how her hips rock erratically as Jen strokes her, as if she’s trying to fuck Jen’s hand with her clit. 

Jen hadn’t imagined any of the sensations of fucking Judy beyond the visual (she’d had a good idea of how that would play out, after all, what with the repeated sneak-previews) and the new information is overwhelming in the best way. She finds herself straddling Judy’s thigh as she fucks her, grinding against her bare skin, her own wetness audible. 

“Fuck, Jen, you’re so wet, I’m gonna-”

“That’s what watching you does to me, Jude. God, I love how ready you always are for me. “ She scissors her fingers inside Judy for emphasis. “How good it feels to be inside your greedy little cunt. How does it compare to touching yourself, hmm?” 

“ _Oh_ , it’s so much,” Judy whines, pushing hard against Jen’s hand, forcing herself to open her closed eyes and meet Jen’s penetrating stare, “ _better_ ,” she gasps, convulsing. 

(Eat your fucking heart out, rabbit.) 

Judy comes quickly but gloriously, spilling into Jen’s hand, squeezing her fingers and bucking her hips wildly as she seeks even more pressure. She grips Jen’s wrist, a silent plea for her to stop (she does, this time, at least). They both sigh a little when Jen pulls out of Judy.

Judy opens her eyes lazily, before bringing Jen’s hand to her mouth, sucking hard on her fingers and never once letting her gaze drop from Jen’s. 

(Two can stare, apparently.)

“Noticed you wore the pencil skirt today, Jen.” 

“No shit, Sherlock.” 

“Well my body is pretty worn out after that, not gonna lie. But you know, I could probably put my mouth to good use.” 

It takes every ounce of Jen's remaining focus to pull of any semblance of cool, calm, and collected. But somehow, her voice doesn't actually squeak. 

“Could you, now?” 

(She can. She really fucking can.)

**Author's Note:**

> happy capricorn season!!!!


End file.
